


Those Who Help Us

by kayura_sanada



Series: For Good [5]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders' Clinic, Falling In Love, Hawke and Fenris Both Got It Bad, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plot Outside Canon Plotline, Post-Act I, Pre-Act II, Protective!Aveline, Spirit Healer Lore, art at the end, protective friends, sub-plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-27 00:57:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8381677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayura_sanada/pseuds/kayura_sanada
Summary: Fenris and Azzan both take a single step forward, toward one another. And as they do, an enemy advances on Kirkwall.





	

They weren’t quite on even footing, but it was a good enough relationship that Azzan could now go to Fenris’ mansion and sit with him. The elf almost welcomed it.

Azzan knocked on the door, as always, though it meant nothing. Fenris never answered. It was more habit than anything else. But though he received no answer, when he stepped inside and made his way to the main bedroom, there Fenris was, going through some sort of routine with his sword. Azzan had seen the man practicing in the main hall, but never up in the closeted space of the bedrooms. He stopped for a moment to watch.

Fenris was graceful, even with such a large weapon as his greatsword. He ducked low, his thighs and calves bunching as he swung his sword wide from his hips, the tip scraping the wall, leaving a light slit in the middle of the wallpaper. Fenris tsked, even as he used the force of the swing to turn full circle and, calves bunching like cords, pivot. Then he leaped into the air with one foot, then the other, and with the full weight of the previous swing, the pivot, the jump, and every muscle in his arms and chest and waist, slammed the sword into the ground. The tile cracked like glass beneath the pressure.

Fenris landed, then pulled himself straight, his back to Azzan. “What are you doing here?” he growled.

 _Admiring the view_. The thought bubbled up inside him without conscious thought or consent, but though he tried to push it away, it lingered. He cleared his throat. “I came to see you. Why are you up here? I thought you practiced mainly in the Great Hall.”

With a single hand, Fenris clipped the sword to his back once more. “I do,” the elf said, finally turning. Though his voice was hard, the edge in his stance did not reflect in his gaze. “But as you seem to find battles in every conceivable place, including small rooms and thin alleys, it would be wise to practice under such conditions.”

It was for his sake? Warmth bubbled up from a place very close to the aberrant thought. He sucked in a sharp breath. “You practice a great deal.”

Those bright green eyes were sharp. “What did you come here for?”

Azzan put his hands up in a sign of surrender and smiled. “To talk.”

Fenris watched him for a moment, then harrumphed. He put down his sword, though, and sat in his usual chair. Azzan had no idea why that made his heart pound against his ribcage, but it did. He sat down in his usual seat, as well. “How are you?” he asked, figuring it safe territory.

Fenris rolled his eyes. “Fine. I can’t imagine you came here just to ask me that.”

To be honest, sometimes Azzan had no idea at all why he came. But this time he had an excuse. “About a week ago, you and I faced enemies in combat again for the first time in quite a while.” He leaned forward, placing his hands together. Something flickered in Fenris’ gaze. He held himself very still. “I – I don’t want to take the offer for granted, or to act as if it means more than it could. I don’t know – no.” He held out his hand. “Let me start by saying that I was very happy to learn you didn’t mind working with me. I wasn’t certain…” He looked down at his hands. As always, he could feel the magic inside him. Many said it was like a river or a stream, or even like a passing wind; for him, it had always been more like rapids or a waterfall, some sort of maelstrom barely kept at bay by locked doors and boarded windows. At times, it felt like the Fade was close enough to touch.

“Hawke.” There was something in Fenris’ tone. Azzan couldn’t place it, but it sounded almost like he was unsure. It gave him the strength to ask what he was afraid to learn. He looked into Fenris’ eyes.

“I meant what I said before. I would never hold you to anything, or demand you give me something in return. I helped you because I wanted to. Because it was the right thing to do. So if your assistance was a one-time thing–”

“It wasn’t.”

Fenris’ scowl grew, as if the act of saying the words was akin to torture. Azzan, this time, was the one to still.

“It wasn’t?” he echoed, and felt the fluttering in his chest take full flight. What a ridiculous thing to be excited about. But then again, this was a man who was haunted still by the memory of those who had come before, mages with far less kindness and far too much greed. Having Fenris’ friendship meant more, perhaps, because of these obstacles.

But if that errant thought a few minutes ago was correct, then what he wanted from Fenris was more than friendship. Which meant he was doomed; this man would never want a relationship with a mage.

He deliberately changed the subject to something innocuous, asking about Fenris’ training; the man, like himself, had gotten stronger from his time in Kirkwall; Fenris blamed it on Hawke’s penchant for finding battles, and Azzan couldn’t argue the point. Not entirely, anyway. Yes, Fenris had met battles while with Azzan, but mostly, the man had trained on his own in his home, just as he had been before Azzan had interrupted. Still, Azzan let it go; it wasn’t as if he’d avoided being the causal factor by any effort of his own.

The conversation slipped, and Azzan nearly started to relax. They spoke about the city, about what they’d seen happening in and around Kirkwall. Fenris seemed unsurprised when Azzan took interest in a string of robberies in Lowtown; the man rolled his eyes and said, “I assume we’re to search the area tonight?” It made Azzan grin. Not only had Fenris noted Azzan’s wish, he’d also deliberately added himself to Azzan’s team.

“Yes,” Azzan said, and there was absolutely no surprise on the elf’s face at the news. “We can start asking around in the evening; the Hanged Man will have a few people with tales to tell, I’m sure.”

Fenris snorted. “Not that we would know how accurate they were.”

“Varric could piece truth from lie. He does it often enough himself,” Azzan said, and caught a quick flash of a grin. Fenris chuckled.

“You should hear the tale he’s telling about you,” the man said, and Azzan leaned forward, opening his mouth to ask.

The front door far below slammed open, the wood banging hard against stone. Both he and Fenris jumped in their seats, then twisted out of them to grab for their weapons. Azzan, closer to the door, swept up his staff and pulled on his magic, casting his aura out to Fenris as footsteps approached. His heart hammered as he considered the possibilities of a magister coming to Kirkwall in the middle of the day with no attempt at stealth. As he tensed, preparing to call lightning if he must, Fenris moved between Hawke and the door, his sword at the ready in his hands.

Varric burst through the bedroom door. “Hawke! Thank goodness; I’d hoped you’d be here, if not at your fancy new mansion.”

Fenris clearly pulled himself back at the sight of the dwarf, his foot shifting to catch his balance again, his hands going white-knuckled in their grip. Azzan put down his staff with a loud sigh. “Varric! Maker, we thought you were an enemy!”

“Yeah, sorry to ruin your chance at fun and adventure, Hawke, but Blondie needs you.” Varric pointed behind him, though there was no sign of the mage in the vicinity.

Azzan tensed all over again, even as Fenris made a disgusted sound and backed away. Hawke hurried forward. “What is it, Varric? What happened?”

“Some dirtbag left poison gas grenades around Lowtown; Anders’ clinic has been flooded with people ever since.” Azzan was already moving toward the exit before Varric could even finish his sentence. Varric hurried after him as he left the room. “Aveline is looking into the attacks, but Blondie’s being overrun. He needs another healer.”

“I’m coming,” Azzan said, then stopped and turned. “Fenris?”

The elf stood inside the room, his face a mask. He didn’t say anything, but his gaze rested on Azzan’s without flinching.

“I know it will be boring, but I’ll need your help, too.” Azzan turned to Varric. “Thank you for coming to get me. Could you help Aveline find whoever’s responsible? And if I’m still helping in the clinic, help her bring them in. Get Merrill and Isabela, too.”

Varric nodded and hurried to do as bid. Azzan stood waiting for Fenris. The elf took what seemed to be a cautious step forward, his brow wrinkling as he did. “What help could I give?” the man asked.

“There will be a lot of people, all of them hurting. I’ll need someone to help me direct traffic, lift everyone, and yes, fetch things Anders and I will need. It won’t be a pretty job, but–”

“All right,” the man said, and just like that, Fenris took his usual place behind him. Letting him lead the way, even though they’d only just finished discussing the man returning to Azzan’s team. His heart should not have skipped, but it did.

* * *

Anders’ clinic was packed. The wailing could be heard from the other side of Darktown, made all the worse when Azzan came near. He saw people sitting just outside the clinic, their arms around their knees as they hacked up phlegm, their bodies shaking with the effort, their skin pale or jaundiced. Some wailed or moaned, adding their voices to the cacophony of sound. Azzan looked beyond them, only to find a wall of people standing between him and Anders, blocking so much of his sight that all he could see was the flash of the mage’s magic. Then, above all of the din, “all right! I’m ready for the next!”

Anders sounded exhausted.

“Anders!” Azzan called, raising his hand to try to catch his friend’s attention.

“Hawke!” Anders sounded so relieved, Azzan found himself pushing through the beleaguered masses to reach the man’s side. Fenris helped him after only a moment, gently pushing people out of Azzan’s way, the greatsword on his back scaring away anyone before they could do more than protest. Or perhaps that would be due to his stunningly powerful glare.

Azzan barely reached Anders before the blond grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the nearest cot. “Hawke! Thank goodness. Help me with this man, please.”

Azzan looked down. The ‘man’ was little more than a child; he seemed to have only just crossed into adulthood. His hair, what little hadn’t been cut off in a severe style, was soaked wet with sweat. Yet the man shivered as if trapped in a ice storm. Azzan could feel the eddies of the gas in the man’s system, slowly shutting down organ after organ. With a sharp hiss of breath, Azzan pulled his magic forward.

Time spilled between his fingers as he worked. They started with the youngest, those most vulnerable to the poison in their systems. Only after they were cared for did they move on to the adults, those falling victim to the worst of organ failure first, then moving to those less severely affected. Anders only had a few lyrium potions, but the both of them used them up in no time. Azzan’s personal stash, what he’d had with him when he’d gone to Fenris, passed in a flash, as well. Fenris, who had been transporting the worst of the victims to their tables and bandaging what few physical wounds could be taken care of without magic, ran off to get more, either from Azzan’s home or from Aveline and the guards, Azzan hadn’t bothered asking.

The clinic was still packed by the time Azzan felt his energy fading, his mana tapped out and his body struggling to continue. Yet right when he feared he would no longer be able to help, something warm and bright filtered inside him, like a pool of light spilling, a waterfall of gold. He breathed deeply and called for the next person, smiling as Fenris raced back, a small pile of potions in his hands.

Azzan had no idea how long they’d been going, but his hands were trembling and his muscles ached with the effort of pulling and controlling the well of magic within. His tether to the Fade, always just below his threshold for control, bubbled like a burning cauldron beneath his breast. He stepped back from the latest victim and struggled to get his breath. He could feel his magic flaking out of his control, even as his mana pool fell drastically low. He put a hand to his head. The golden pool of light faded; not gone, but retreated.

“Azzan,” Anders said. The man touched his shoulder, grabbing his attention from his frayed discipline. “You did it. We can rest for a while now; those who are left suffer from little more than stomachache and dizziness. A few herbs, and they should at least be good until we get our strength back.”

For the first time in a very, very long time, Azzan looked around. The room looked much better, only a bit busier than usual. Most people could stand on their own; those who couldn’t had taken up the cots. Fenris, of all people, was the one leaning over one of those women, his gaze attentive as the lady told him her pains. Despite being in full armor, his sword still strapped to his back, his entire demeanor was one of patience and compassion. His hands, when they touched the woman’s stomach, were gentle. Azzan watched wordlessly as Fenris moved away to grab a tonic and returned to the woman’s side.

“Surprising, isn’t it?” Anders said, catching where Azzan’s attention had turned. “He’s been really helpful, actually.”

Azzan smiled. He leaned against the cot beside him, the elderly man on it sleeping peacefully now. “He’s a good man, Anders.”

Anders snorted. “He’s an ass. He knows nothing about me, but he treats me like trash simply because I’m a mage. He does the same to you.”

Azzan thought it was different, that Fenris feared Anders and the spirit within him, but he didn’t say that. Instead, he said, “we all carry demons, Anders. And just like yours, they are not so easily purged.”

Anders was silent for a long time. Azzan, fearing he’d hurt his friend, looked back, only to find a narrowed gaze focused on him. But instead of saying anything, Anders nodded and turned back to Fenris. A point, then. Azzan smiled again and looked back to Fenris. The elf must have sensed their attention on him, for he looked up, his gaze quickly catching on Azzan’s. Azzan raised his hand, silently beckoning Fenris to come over. As soon as the warrior began making his way to them, Azzan spoke. “Things seem to be under control now. You don’t have to work anymore.” Lowering his voice as Fenris came closer, he continued, “thank you. For all this.”

Fenris looked away. “It was simple enough.”

“It was everything,” Azzan said. “You helped save these people.” Anders moved away slightly; the tension in the line of Fenris’ shoulders loosened a bit at the mage’s retreat.

Fenris looked him up and down. “Are you done?” he asked, his voice carefully blank.

Azzan looked around again. Anders had been right when he’d said there weren’t many left to help, that those who needed attention needed little more than medicine and rest. He nodded. “Yes, I think I’m done.” And Fenris made to take his place behind Azzan Silently ushering him out. Almost, Azzan laughed. “Hold on.” He held up a hand, then went to say his good-byes to Anders. The mage had retreated to the far end of the clinic to go over his remaining medicine.

“Heading out, then?” Anders said, his gaze turning to Fenris as the elf waited back by the cot.

Azzan looked over Anders’ supply, as well; it was dangerously low. His lips thinned. “Will you be all right here?” he asked. He made a mental list of what Anders was missing; not just lyrium potions, but health potions, injury kits, and restoration potions. He was also horribly low on elfroot potions. Everything, basically. Anders was now low on everything.

“I’ll be fine.” Anders waved away Hawke’s concern, as always. “Thanks to you.” They shared a smile.

“You need rest, too, though.” Anders looked even more haggard than usual. Azzan doubted the mage was any better off than he was himself. They both needed time to replenish their mana. A good sleep, entering the Fade to heal properly, sounded pretty nice at the moment.

“I’ll be fine,” Anders said, rolling his eyes and waving Hawke off. “Besides.” And here Anders finally looked him straight on, “you need to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

Azzan grimaced at the very thought of another swarm of injured slamming the doors of the clinic. He nodded. “Promise me you won’t overexert yourself.”

Anders huffed, but at the look on Hawke’s face, sighed and nodded. “I promise.” His lips quirked into a half-grin, almost self-deprecating in its hard lines. “Nice to know someone would miss me, I guess.”

Warnings flashed across Azzan’s mind. He reached out and clasped Anders’ shoulder. The touch seemed to surprise the man. “Anders. You just saved countless lives today. You’re a hero. Not only would you be missed, but the world would be lesser without you.”

Anders stared at him for a short moment before chuckling quietly. “I don’t know that I believe that, but it’s nice to hear, anyway.”

Azzan squeezed, trying to project the truth of his comment into the man somehow. Slowly, he let Anders go. “I’m going to check with Aveline and see how the search is going,” he said, not certain he should leave but not knowing what else to do. He would have to come see his friend in Darktown more often.

He finally left, returning to Fenris. “Let’s go,” he said quietly, turning and looking back before they left. Anders’ gaze stayed on him as they headed out.

* * *

Nighttime had crept up on them during their time in Darktown; while time could pass without note in the underground tunnels, the glaring evidence of the passage of time shook him for a moment before he could continue. They day and evening had both swept by, leaving them in the deep hours of the night, the moon high enough to shine fully down on them as they made their way through to Hightown.

Hawke stopped off at his home first. Fenris stayed in the lobby, uncomfortable as always with entering Hawke’s home. Azzan might think it something to do with a mage owning a mansion, if not for the elf’s equal reticence when they’d lived with Gamlen in his small home in Lowtown.

He walked through the entrance, Bodahn’s usual greeting breaking off as his mother ran down the stairs. “Azzan!” she called, her hands reaching out, her tone speaking of anger. “Where were you? We expected you hours ago! And with the news of the attacks in Lowtown,” she said. Azzan held out his hands.

“Sorry to worry you, mother,” he said. “There were injured. They needed help healing them off.”

“And you had to be the one to do that? You’re putting yourself in danger using your magic out in the open like that!” She came to a stop in front of him, her chin lifted to look him in the eyes, her lips pulled down as she spoke.

How to explain to her that his greatest fear of being caught had been that his sister would also be thrown away? That, now that, Maker help him, she could no longer be saved, he focused more on doing what was right, in his heart, than concerning himself with only his own safety? How to explain that he couldn’t place his freedom before the lives of dozens of innocent people?

He placed his hands on her shoulders and smiled. “Mother. I’ll try to be careful. But I can’t walk away when people need my help.”

She sighed loudly. “I wish you would think of your family first.” The barb stung, as it always did. He straightened his shoulders as his mother slipped out of his hold. “Helping others is all well and good, but if it garners more attention from the templars? They’re already so strict here. What would happen if they got their hands on you? I worry. You’re all I have left.”

It was a valid concern, and one he was not oblivious to. The Gallows, the Circle. Meredith. All of it scared him. He would sooner die than enter such a place, where even mages who had passed their Harrowing were made Tranquil if they dared have contentious opinions. Yet even so, he could not turn from others. If he turned a blind eye to those who needed help, he would be little better than those he feared.

There was little he could do to assuage his mother’s fears, especially since he planned to go out and hunt down the persons responsible for said attacks down in Lowtown. He turned to Bodahn. “Bodahn. I need a favor from you.”

“Anything, messere,” Bodahn said, his gaze flickering to Azzan’s mother before deciding to risk the woman’s wrath. A brave man.

“I need you to put in an order for some potions. Grab a piece of paper, please. Then, save for ten lyrium potions, take it all down to Anders’ clinic.”

Bodahn blinked only a couple of time before nodding. “Of course, sirrah.” After taking the list from Azzan, Bodahn did as good as bade and made straight for the door.

Leandra watched without a word, her arms crossed over her chest, her lips pursed. Only after Bodahn left did Azzan turn back to her. “I have to go,” he said.

She waved her hand. “Of course you do.” She didn’t sound the least bit happy about it, but at least she knew better than to try to talk him out of it again. “Well, go on, then. Leave your mother to worry while you go out playing hero again.”

He winced again, but turned, anyway. In the lobby, Fenris waited silently against the wall, bypassing the benches for what Varric called his 'brooding stance.’ He pushed off from the wall as Azzan neared. “Ready?” he asked, not bringing up Azzan’s orders to Bodahn or his mother’s complaints. Azzan sighed with relief and nodded. He grabbed the door, holding it open for Fenris. The elf didn’t say a word at the act, just made his way through. Azzan left behind him without looking back.

* * *

It was a short trip to the Viscount’s Keep from his home, but the silence between him and Fenris seemed to stretch during that short trip. Finally, before walking inside, Azzan turned to Fenris. “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

As usual, it took very little prompting to get Fenris to talk. “You’re exhausted,” the elf said simply. “You used up too much mana, and, by now, you should be on your way to collapse. Assisting the guards now will do little more than make you a liability.”

It might have even been true, if not for that warm center glowing inside him. He could feel the touch of the Fade, the reassurance of that thing that had come to him in the clinic, and at other times besides. By now, he knew the feeling for what it was. Apparently Fenris didn’t. He didn’t know, then, how Fenris would respond to it – no. He did. To Fenris, all spirits were the same, as were all mages. The man would spurn him as an abomination. He took an unsteady breath. “You don’t know, then.”

Fenris did not look happy to hear the statement. With a sigh, Azzan waved Fenris away from the stairs and the guards who stood watch. Fenris’ eyes narrowed, but he allowed himself to be led. It was a show of trust, one Azzan didn’t want to lose. One he knew he would, once he said his piece.

But if he didn’t, he would lose it, anyway, when Fenris inevitably learned for himself. And the fallout would be beyond his control.

“You know much about magic,” Azzan said, and every single muscle in Fenris’ body stiffened up. Wonderful. He held up his hands, showing he was unarmed. Not that it meant much, as a mage; all it really said was that he could not focus his powers as well as he could with staff in hand. “But I don’t know how many spirit healers exist in Tevinter.”

The term seemed to mean little to Fenris; what Azzan had mistaken for recognition showed itself now to be incomprehension. Fenris’ lips pulled back. “Why use just magic when you can use your enemies’ blood to heal yourself? Or even that of your allies.”

Azzan nodded. It explained, perhaps, why Fenris did not fear him. At least, he did not fear him as much as he did Anders, or Merrill. As much as the templars feared people like Hawke. Perhaps that should have been a sign from the start. “What I do, what I’m able to do – people like myself are called spirit healers.”

The term washed over Fenris again, but then something seemed to click. Even as Fenris’ eyes widened, his lips pulled back.

“We can call upon – and get assistance from – spirits in the Fade.” Fenris recoiled before composing himself. He stood ramrod straight. Azzan continued as if he hadn’t seen, even as he prepared himself for the worst. For Fenris to turn right around and walk away – or even head toward the guards to give Azzan up to the templars. He tried to suppress a shiver. “The people accept us for our healing abilities, while the templars, I’m told, despise and fear us for it. They – they don’t seem to understand. Any of them, civilian and templar alike. We mages, we meet spirits all the time. I don’t know if all can, but I personally can sometimes feel them pressing against the Fade, watching me as I use my magic. Demons are naturally drawn to us; we see them many a time in our dreams.” The more he spoke, the more it seemed Fenris was ready to bolt. Or attack. “These are things I grew up with, problems I had before I was old enough to tie my boots. My father taught me how to protect myself, which to recognize as friend and as foe.”

Fenris’ lips pulled back. Azzan could guess what he would say. Again, he spoke on, pretending not to notice.

“When I healed people, back before I accepted a spirit’s help, I could feel the limitation of my mana. There was only so much I could do to help others. I was severely limited to my own abilities. When I finally allowed myself to speak with a spirit – one that had been interested in my doings for quite some time – it offered its power to my own.”

This time, when Fenris stepped back, he did not bother correcting the movement. Azzan sighed.

“Even the circle recognizes a difference between what I do and what abominations or maleficarum do, Fenris,” he said, his voice quiet. “And you yourself have seen what I do, and what those who use blood magic are capable of. Every time we use magic, we are accessing the Fade. Every time we touch it, we run the risk of calling spirits to us, both good and ill.” He dared hold up his hand, to let the warmth trickle from within him to show the usual blue glow that surrounded him. “The Circle itself recognizes our efforts as acceptable, and does not call us abominations. That’s because we do not join with the spirit, or pull it from the other side. Nor do we practice blood magic or any other forbidden art.” He dropped his hand and let the glow dissipate. “Yet, yes, we do toe the line.”

“And you choose now to tell me?” Fenris snarled. “After I have pledged myself to you?”

That one, Azzan did not expect, and snapped back as if punched. “No!” He gasped. “Maker, no. Absolutely not. And it was not a pledge – not in my eyes. Of course you may choose to walk away, at any time. My offer to assist you will always stand, no matter your choice.” He shivered at what Fenris thought him capable of, hardly able to stand the sight of the man in this moment. “I honestly thought you knew. It’s no secret, how we healers come by our gifts.”

Fenris did not slacken his guard in the slightest, but he did choose to speak instead of strike. “So if I spoke to a templar about your magic, they would not call you an abomination.”

“An apostate, yes,” Azzan said, his back going ramrod stiff. “An abomination, no.”

It would be a perfect ending to this day, to have to go on the run because of a friend.

But when he expected Fenris to march him to the Gallows, the elf instead blocked his passage to the Keep. “I want to know everything.”

It was far too early, Fenris’ face far too furious and distrusting, to believe he was safe. So Azzan did as bade, slowly, with every intention of freezing Fenris in place and making a run for it if the warrior forced his hand. He told Fenris about the feel of the spirits watching from the Fade as he healed, those who demanded blood and those who offered to give of their own essence to ensure the healing took. He spoke of navigating those who pretended to assist and those who genuinely offered, a sort of study that could take years. He had begun before Lothering, and had only truly trusted his decision recently. As an apostate without any guidance since his father died, he wanted to be sure he wasn’t placing himself in a position where he would become a danger to family and friends.

If Fenris believed a word, he didn’t know. Only that the guards were starting to watch them, and it made the hair on his neck prickle. “May we move somewhere else?” he asked. But Fenris held up a hand when Azzan attempted to move.

“You say you chose a spirit of faith,” the elf said, his lips pulled back as if the very words were rancid on his tongue. “But I never see you going to the Chantry.”

“You needn’t go to a building to believe, Fenris.” When the elf continued to look unimpressed, Azzan sighed. He dared move to one of the walls and lean against it, trying to look for all the world as if they weren’t being extremely suspicious. “What would you have me say, Fenris? Yes, I believe in the Maker. Yes, I believe in his love for us. But I cannot accept the Chantry’s version. They would call my existence sin. Not because I was born, but because I was born with magic. It would say that people like myself cannot help but fall, as Maferath did, to the baser of my instincts. I’ve been condemned by them from the start.”

Fenris made a face. Azzan didn’t bother doing more than glancing at it before turning away. Few people lined the streets at night, and most who did were guards. In Hightown, one could pretend no one stayed up late. In reality, all who did just went to Lowtown for their entertainment. “I know how you feel about hearing a mage’s plight. But you asked why I do not go to the Chantry. That is your answer. If the Maker truly loves us all, then am I an exception? Will the Maker not love me because I am able to touch the Fade? I pray, Fenris, and I believe. But I cannot believe that.”

For a very long time, Fenris did not speak. They both jumped when a contingent of guards ran down the Keep steps, quietly issuing orders to one another before splitting up the moment they hit the cobblestones. Azzan stood straight. “Perhaps we could continue this conversation later,” he said quietly. Fenris glared at him.

“ _This conversation_ started because you’re too weak to continue.” And for a moment, Azzan actually believed that, somehow, Fenris was still worried about him. “You work with demons. Your weakness is as a flame to moths.”

 _Was_ that concern? Well, perhaps, but likely not for him. He watched three guards move past them, their footsteps loud in the quiet, the metal of their armor sending ominous echoes down the streets. He rubbed his face with his hands. “While it’s true that I cannot rely much further on the spirit, I still have enough mana to protect in battle, so long as I’m careful.”

“No,” Fenris said. As if him saying it could make it so.

Azzan tried a smile. It did nothing but make Fenris tense up a little more. He hadn’t even known that was possible. “Anders worked the whole time I did and even before that. You and I both know that, with these attacks, not having a healer would be akin to suicide.”

Fenris had nothing to say to that. The elf just turned away in disgust. “If I believe you are about to harm another, I will cut you down.”

Azzan nodded. “As would Varric, and Aveline. I have already been given their words.”

That made the elf jump. He turned back around. “What?”

“Before I ever took this step, I spoke with Aveline and Carver about it. Both agreed to kill me if it did not work according to plan.” Azzan waved his hand a bit. “After agreeing to go with Varric to the Deep Roads, I made him aware of it, as well. I’d become a spirit healer before even meeting you, Fenris. Once I’d made ties with the proper spirit, the chances of me falling to demons decreased dramatically. This spirit of faith wishes to help me; they’ll protect me, as well. But if, by some chance, I do fall to a demon, of course I would choose death before bringing those I love to harm.”

Fenris hesitated. “You said this before.”

“And I don’t think you believed me then, either.” Azzan chuckled softly and shook his head. “I’m sorry you didn’t know about what it means to be a spirit healer. I’m sorry I assumed based on nothing more than my own culture. And I’m sorry, too, that this has brought us back to square one.” He pushed the pain back before it could do more than press down on his shoulders. “I know you’re tired and don’t want to work with me. I also know you’re not letting me out of your sight for a while. And I know I’m not going to walk away when people are being attacked. So will you accompany me still, at least until this is resolved?”

Fenris’ gaze searched his. Something in those emerald eyes seemed to flicker. Azzan didn’t know what it was, just waited patiently for Fenris to choose. It was clear the man struggled with himself; his hands clenched in and out of fists, his lips pressed tight, his brows furrowed. Something in the man fought a terrible battle.

“I will go,” Fenris said finally. “And… I will learn more about this magic of yours.”

It wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t even defamatory. Azzan didn’t know whether to take it as a good sign or not; every time he thought he was making some sort of progress with the cautious elf, he was proven wrong.

The streets were empty again; wherever the guards had gone, they had yet to return. He wanted to get into the Keep. They’d lost about an hour already, and another attack could come at any time. Fenris still stood before him, a wall between him and his destination. Azzan moved to stand before the man. He stood only a couple of inches taller than the elf, though most elves were shorter by a head. It meant Fenris barely had to crane his neck back to keep eye contact. And he did. It was always startling, somewhat, to see such ferocity in someone who had been beaten and abused his entire life. Startling, and humbling, and always, always beautiful.

He sighed. “Do you wish to lead?”

Silently, Fenris stepped aside. Hawke doubted it was because the elf trusted him to lead them safely. More likely, it was to stay at Hawke’s back, in case he had to stab it. Or perhaps simply to ensure Hawke didn’t stab his.

Azzan tried to ignore the feeling of Fenris’ gaze as he led the way up the Keep steps. The guards watched them with expressionless faces. If they’d heard anything he and Fenris had discussed, they made no sign, and they did not attack or attempt to detain. He was known well enough as Aveline’s friend, but he didn’t know how far that would take him. Certainly, Aveline would not arrest him. But if he was arrested by another? He couldn’t count on her to put her job on the line for his sake. And she had no power over the templars.

And he was pretty sure that, at this moment, all he had to do was give the guards a funny look, and they would arrest him simply for being suspicious as hell for an hour straight.

The Keep was calmer than he might have expected, if he’d thought to consider it. The place should have been closed, and for the most part was; only a few people, mostly servants, walked around, and each seemed more interested in their jobs than the few people coming and going from the building. He caught sight of the viscount’s secretary up on the balcony above, making his quick way to the viscount’s rooms. An elven woman hurried past him with a small stack of papers in her hands. Azzan stepped out of her way, then moved toward the guard’s barracks. He could hear Aveline’s voice the moment he breached the top of the stairs, her words clipped as she gave someone orders. “No, don’t give me that. I don’t want to have the nobles in a tizzy because of this; they’ll just make more trouble. Tell the men to stay quiet when they leave.” He descended the stairs, Fenris a silent present at his back, and saw Aveline standing outside the guard captain’s room. She turned at the sound of their approach. “Hawke!”

“Aveline,” he greeted. The guardsman Aveline had been giving a tongue lashing took his chance to retreat.

“And find Varric!” she called out, not letting the man leave the blasting radius so easily. “He’s been gone long enough; the man needs to learn to give reports now and again.” She turned back to Hawke and ushered both he and Fenris aside, into the captain’s room. The place still sat empty; she would be given her position officially soon enough, but until then, the room did nothing more than collect dust. She closed the door. “I expected you sooner. How are things?”

“Anders has the clinic handled,” Hawke said. “We lost a couple, an elderly man and one in his twenties. He’d been passed out on a side street when the gas rose; he inhaled too much of it for us to save.”

She frowned, but she nodded. “Better than we could have hoped, I suppose, though it’s a horrible loss, nonetheless. There’s been no sign of another attack since, but we can’t just hope this is the end. Varric’s trying to run down the origin of the materials used for the canisters, and the guards are running down known poison makers. You have a friend in the business, don’t you?”

“Tomwise, yes. I can get a message to him, ask him if he knows what’s going on. This is bad for his business, too.” Azzan turned to go, only to come face to face with Fenris. The elf did not make an attempt to move. He frowned. “Fenris?”

“Hawke told me what a spirit healer is,” Fenris said, his gaze turning to Aveline, though his body did not move otherwise. A warning for Azzan not to move, then. He sighed. He felt like he’d been sighing a lot. “Did you know about this?”

“Of course I did,” Aveline said, waving Fenris’ words away. “We all do. It’s a risk Hawke chose for himself long before he met us, and it’s one that places others before his own safety. Mages may be dangerous, but if they all made the choice to think of others as Hawke does, there would be little need for a Circle.”

Azzan blinked. From Aveline, who was pro-templar and pro-Circle, that was very high praise. She caught the look on his face and grinned. “Now, if the two of you could get to work?”

Azzan snorted. “What? I’m getting paid?”

Aveline rolled her eyes and made a shooing motion. “Get out of here, you. I want to hear what your contact has to say. And you, Fenris,” she said, pointing at the elf, “I expect you to be on good behavior tonight. I don’t need the added burden of arresting you for attacking my friend.”

Fenris nearly snarled at the threat. “You won’t. Trust me.”

Azzan nearly slapped his hand over his face. Great. Wonderful. So now Fenris thought he couldn’t trust the authorities to have his back if he believed himself in trouble. Way to go, Aveline.

Fenris turned on his heel and stalked back up the steps.

“Aveline,” Azzan sighed.

“No. I’ve been quite understanding of your choice to save every lost animal that you come across, but this one’s bitten you one too many times.” She touched his arm, her fingers gentle as she slid them down to his elbow. “I’ve watched for too long as you’ve let him dictate your life! You walk on eggshells around him. You can’t save everyone, Hawke. How long are you going to let this go on?”

He shook his head. “It’s not about saving him, Aveline. It’s about…” He looked away. He wasn’t certain what it was about. What could he say to explain how he felt about Fenris? The man made him ache with want. A desire to be better, to be honest. To move forward. “He’s strong. Not just physically, but – I can’t explain this, Aveline. But you have to have seen it yourself. I could only hope to be as strong as him one day.”

Aveline searched his gaze, her fingers squeezing slightly before letting him go. She nodded. “I have seen it. And I’ve seen how you respond to it, and to him. It worries me.” She smiled. “Everything about you worries me, Hawke. You know that.”

Hawke’s heart beat hard in his chest; Aveline’s observations hinted even closer toward what he feared was happening. He couldn’t let himself fall any further into such a hole. Certainly not now, after he’d managed to lose the small favor he’d found with the recalcitrant elf. Friendship might very well be beyond them, and here he was developing even more complex feelings?

He took a single step back and rubbed a hand down his face. He needed to get himself under control. Fenris couldn’t be left to feel like he was on his own here. He had to get this out properly. “I know you’re my friend, and you’re only trying to look after me. And I appreciate it. But Fenris needs to know there are people who would defend him, who would choose to protect him, if they could. He needs to know that he’s not alone with the danger of mages. Aveline,” he said when she opened her mouth, her brows drawing low on her forehead, “we are dangerous. He can’t think that he would have to act alone to stop me. He doesn’t trust me as you do.” He hesitated. “Not yet. Don’t let him feel like he’s alone here, too. Please.”

Her mouth shut. Opened. Shut again. She huffed. “I understand where you’re coming from, Hawke. I do. But you can’t let this continue.”

“He’s alone and on the run,” Azzan said. “He needs the guards. He needs you.”

She sighed. Looked down. Back up. “Fine. But you owe me, Hawke. And if you think this changes anything for me, you’re wrong. I stand by you, as always.”

He nodded. “Thank you. Talk to him?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Fine. You go get some information from your Tomwise friend.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” He laughed at her annoyed look and headed up after Fenris. The elf stood by the edge of the stairs, leaning against the wall and looking for all the world like he was about to go wild on the building. The guards all watched him warily. Azzan smiled at him. “I’m heading out on a quick errand. Would you mind seeing if there’s something you can do here?”

Fenris’ eyes narrowed. “You’re going alone.”

“Back to Darktown,” he said. “Aveline wants me to meet with an old friend from my days as a mercenary, and he doesn’t like crowds. I’ll get more from him if I speak to him alone. I promise to come straight back. I need to bring back any information I get, anyway. All right?”

Fenris stood up. “One is not a crowd.”

“Fenris!” Aveline called from below. “You up there? I need you for a minute.”

Thank you, Aveline! “Look. The guards need all the help they can get, and I need to get my most paranoid contact to give up information. See if you can help Aveline, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He didn’t bother to wait for an answer, just hurried down the lobby steps and to the door. It wasn’t his place to speak for Aveline, and the offer would mean nothing if it came first from him. Fenris needed to know he was safe here, or else the man would never stop feeling like he was on the run. He would be hounded by the stain of mages forever. If he thought even places with Circles weren’t safe, where could he ever feel safe again? The last thing he ever wanted was for Fenris to feel hunted until the day he died.

He made his way through Hightown, hoping Aveline managed to bridge the gap she’d created in her moment of loyalty. There weren’t ways to explain, logically, what it meant to him to think of Fenris alone. The man had been alone enough.

Perhaps Aveline was right. Perhaps he did adopt strays. Perhaps that explained his choice to stand beside Merrill despite her foolish choice to accept a demon’s help. Perhaps it was why he’d latched so quickly to Anders, to Isabela, to Aveline herself. And yes, to Fenris. But when he saw someone alone, who needed help, how could he possibly turn from them? And friendships, no matter how they began, could not survive on such abstract things as that.

Lowtown was cordoned off by the guards, who seemed to stand at every corner. For once, Lowtown had not been left to its devices at night. Azzan couldn’t see much left to tell of the attack, though he found a back alley that the guards had closed off entirely, and could only assume it to be the place of attack. The alley opened up to a wide partition that led straight to the tavern; several people could have been walking to and from the establishment at the time of the attack, or perhaps even off to work. Gamlen usually stayed inside during the day, but Hawke should have checked to make sure he was all right. A flash of guilt passed through him, only partly assuaged by the knowledge that Aveline or his mother would have told him if his uncle had been harmed.

He hurried past, taking in what he could – the usual dust and dank smells of the better roads of Lowtown, the shocking emptiness of the streets, the light coughing that he could still hear past the low emptiness of silence. Darktown, when he arrived, seemed even more crowded than usual, several people milling around or huddled near the entrances to the area. Unwilling to risk the deepest pits of Kirktown, unwilling to chance the relative safety of Lowtown. How many people, he wondered for the first time, had crowded the pews of the Chantry?

His friend waited by his makeshift desk, his hands wringing as he looked over the papers scattered over the top of the counter. The elf pushed his hands through his hair, only to look up and jump as Hawke drew near. “Hawke! I just sent a messenger to your house! You’re here? You shouldn’t be here.”

Hawke stopped mid-greeting, closing his mouth and tilting his head. “Calm down, Tomwise. What’s wrong?”

“Hawke.” Tomwise looked back, deeper into Darktown, then toward the entrance. “You shouldn’t be here. That psycho’s probably looking for you as we speak.”

“'That psycho’?”

“The idiot throwing his wares around,” Tomwise said, waving his arms a bit. For someone so small , he had a penchant for making himself larger than he actually was.

“Wait.” Azzan held up his hands. “You know who did this.”

“Learned just a while ago. Madman actually took the offer.” At the blank look on Azzan’s face, Tomwise sighed and put one hand on the table. “A man came up to us – to me, Lingsa, Winter, and a couple of others. You know, those of us who supply and trade in less beneficial herbs and tonics.” The elf shrugged before putting his other hand down by his first. “This guy comes offering us a job, a garden, all the money to fund our work. Which is, of course, shady over shady plus suspicious and liable to get you killed.”

Azzan nodded. Anyone willing to give a permanent job for those in Tomwise’s trade were, if not open groups like the mercenaries, also likely to kill the appointment off when everything was said and done. It was why men like Tomwise worked for several people at once, without ever taking on a full-time personal commitment. This way, someone was always around to miss him – and to take exception if someone cut off their own supply line. To take such a job, a supplier would have to be both desperate and foolish.

“We all said no, because we like to live. Then we get news: some idiot shem has taken the job. At first we figure good riddance, right? One less rival, one less fool.” Tomwise looks around again, and Azzan does the same, suddenly nervous just because his friend was, as well. “But then we hear the buyer wants an example. We figure, even if the crazy rumor is true, it’s one man down, and then Darktown’s not so populated anymore – don’t give me that look, Hawke. The very nature of our wares means we deal with this sometimes.” Azzan outright scowled. “Fine. We learned our lesson. The guards’ll be told if it happens again.”

It wasn’t everything Azzan wanted, but at this point, it was likely all he was going to get. He motioned for Tomwise to continue.

“Right. So we hear this rumor about a test, and then boom, Lowtown’s turned blue-green. People come streaming in, running and screaming, and some are carrying others on their shoulders and backs, and every one of them’s showing signs of Desert Fever.”

Azzan stiffened; the gas Tomwise spoke of was usually only made in small doses; larger ones tended to be caught immediately by the authorities, as one of the ingredients includes a large amount of lurker poison. Azzan ran a hand over his face. “Who did it, Tom?”

“Guy knows you, Hawke. He only had the one test; he could have packed up and left. But Winter says he heard the guy’s after revenge.”

Of course he was.

Then he finally understood what Tomwise was saying. That the murderer was after him. That he’d sent a message to Hawke’s home. If he wasn’t going to be attacked here, there was always a chance the man was waiting for Hawke to return home – or, perhaps, he wouldn’t be willing to wait at all.

Mother.

“I have to go,” he said. “Send a messenger to the Keep. Tomwise, no, don’t argue. This man has attacked the city and made it dangerous for you or anyone else to work here. If you don’t want a raid, then you’ll show yourself useful to the guard.”

He turned, not waiting for Tomwise to see the logic in what he said. He needed to get to his mother before this madman decided to take what he could get.

The run took longer than usual, since he no longer resided in Lowtown. He had never regretted getting the mansion and renewing his mother’s name before, but now, he would be happy to continue living with Gamlen forever if it meant he reached her in time. The streets still stood empty; no one seemed willing to brave the streets, though they might be able to rest a little easier; he didn’t know if he could trust the idea that there would only be one attack, and the information had been given to him from a trustworthy source.

He took the steps up to Hightown three at a time, his thighs straining, burning as he pushed time once again, his staff a suddenly heavy weight on his back. His lungs heaved as he raced past the empty marketplace and up past the other noble houses, navigating the narrower streets until he reached the wide expanse that led to the Keep. He turned a sharp left and wrenched open the front door, nearly launching himself into the front lobby. A part of him expected to walk into blue smoke, to see his mother’s prone form splayed out before the entrance as if she’d made a run for the door and hadn’t made it. Instead he walked slowly through the entrance, only to find Bodahn smiling widely at him and telling him, “Welcome back, messere! Your message was successfully delivered. I’m afraid nothing’s come back yet.”

He looked around. “Mother?”

“The mistress went to bed a little bit ago. She’ll be happy to know you’ve returned safe.”

Nothing. If Tomwise was right, then it hadn’t happened yet. He wasn’t too late. “Bodahn, wake her up and take her to the Keep. Just in case. Get yourself and Sandal there, too; Aveline will look after you until we find out whether this threat I’ve heard about is real or not.” Whether it was or wasn’t, he would no longer rest easy until the man had been caught.

Azzan waited for questions or demands, but Bodahn gave neither. Instead the dwarf turned to his son and said, “All right, then, Sandal. Grab a couple of things – no, only the necessary ones, we won’t be gone long – and come with me. We’re going to get the Lady Hawke and take her to see Miss Aveline. You like her, don’t you?”

“She’s nice,” Sandal said.

“She is, indeed.” And the old dwarf led his son up the stairs. Azzan watched for a moment, a bit amazed. But the man had chosen to go on a trip through the Deep Roads, and Azzan still didn’t know exactly how Sandal had managed to defeat the Ogre he’d seen frozen in place when he’d found the savant. And hadn’t Bodahn said they’d accompanied the Hero of Ferelden? They were made of sterner stuff than they seemed.

He pulled his staff out and searched with both eyes and magic for anything out of place, searching for any sign of blood. Though he found a small amount on the banister – likely from one of his friends making fools of themselves – he found nothing like a grenade or poison or pitch. He’d finished the lobby and main room and had nearly completed searching the library by the time the dwarves returned, his mother with them. He stepped out to find her wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. Her brows were pulled so low they threw shadows over her eyes. “What is this all about, Azzan?”

“The man who attacked Lowtown. He could be coming here next. I don’t want to take the chance with you.”

“What? Why would they be coming here? And what of you?” She moved away from Bodahn to lean into his space. When she looked up at him, the clear blue of her eyes burst out from the shadows. “You can’t mean to try to find them.”

“I can’t let whoever this is go unpunished. And I can’t let them escape, now that they’ve threatened you.”

For once, she didn’t try to argue. Instead she gripped his arms and, using his own strength to balance her, leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Be safe,” she said, then turned away. He left the house with them, then stood guard as they made their way to the Keep. Once they reached the guards, one of them stopped her, likely asking her business at such a time. His mother spoke calmly to the man for a short moment. The guard looked at him, then nodded them inside. Only then did Azzan turn around, intending to check around the building.

His magic once again caught nothing inside or on the mansion, even when he left the eyesight of the guards and pulled out his staff to help him concentrate. Nothing. If the man was going to attack, he had yet to do so. He looked up, unable to see the moon itself from this small sliver of space between buildings, even though its light shone down the side of his family’s mansion. If he wanted to find the man before dawn, he would have only a couple of hours left.

“Why, hello, Hawke.”

He turned. Immediately, he felt the press of blood in the air, coating the wind with its heavy scent. It wafted from the building next door as the man stepped out of the window he’d just opened. Azzan reached out with his magic, prepared to heal whoever sat within, but the room beyond felt empty. If there was anyone inside, it was too late to save them. Perhaps the upper floor? But it would be too far away for his magic to reach, even if he found someone alive.

He took a step back, further into the shadows, his fingers wrapping easily around the grip of his staff. In the darkness, he couldn’t quite make out who the man before him was. Human, certainly. Male, equally obvious. And the voice sounded slightly familiar. Asking the man, however, would be akin to lighting a flame on gaatlok. “You can’t think this will work for you. The Keep is only steps away.”

“So are you,” the man said, and the dry, cracked voice tickled the back of Azzan’s memory. “Only, I don’t think the guards would be able to ignore your magic if you were to fight back here, now would they?”

He grimaced. There was always a chance that they would, indeed, ignore his magic, at least to apprehend this man. But if a single templar caught him, it would be a completely different story. And this man knew it. The problem was, his only offensive magic struck with light; there was no way it would go unnoticed at this time, with the world still dark.

But there was nothing for it.

He held his staff before him and quickly summoned a glyph. The man, startled, barely managed to reach for something at his waist before he was caught in place. The flare of light came and went, hopefully quickly enough that no one thought much of it. It shone on the man’s face, and in that one moment, he caught the scratchy, scarred face, the man’s lips trapped in a snarl.

Martin. This was Martin, the man who’d wanted to begin selling poisons. The one whose shipment had gotten tied up. The one Azzan had refused to help.

Quickly, Azzan moved forward and snatched the man’s belt. On it were four flasks, each filled with a liquid so murky even sloshing it slightly as he moved back did nothing to increase its translucence. He didn’t know if this was all the man had. All he knew was that Desert Fever was difficult to brew, that a lot of the ingredients needed to be cut and measured and cut again, most of it turned into a powder before mixing it into a liquid form. There could be much more where this came from. For now, at least, Martin no longer had any to terrorize anyone with. It was one piece down, so long as they kept him alive to learn where his alchemy station and buyers were.

The man laughed, a choking, raspy sound. Azzan looked up from his inspection of the flasks. Martin smirked at him. “Did you really think I came alone?”

Above them, the sound of wood grating on stone scraped at the night’s silence. Men dropped out from the upper windows of the neighboring building, each clad in simple armor. Each had a red scarf wrapped over their noses and mouths. He quickly tied the belt of grenades to his own belt and reached for his staff. As more enemies landed, surrounding him against the wall of his own home, Martin laughed. “Didn’t I tell you, Ophen?” he said. “This one is dangerous.”

“So you did,” one of the men in the middle of the sudden group said. One of the shorter ones, surprisingly; sometimes the hierarchy seemed to be made based on size. Yet this man was proportionate to Azzan in height, and slimmer than some of the others despite having a sword and sheath strapped to his back. This leader did not step forward, did not present himself as a target in any way. Instead he raked a gaze up and down as he considered Azzan. “It is true that you managed to incapacitate Martin. Not too difficult, but still capable enough to get you close to my wares.”

Martin scowled at the insult, but said nothing.

Azzan looked at him. Martin was scrawny, scrawnier than he’d been. Azzan hadn’t been willing to help kickstart the man’s business after he’d said what happened after the buyer paid him was none of his business. Even the worst sellers knew better than that; if they sold to the wrong person, they, their business, their own well-being and those of their loved ones, would all be in jeopardy. One’s actions did not occur in a vacuum. Tomwise had noted that no one else would be foolhardy enough to join this insane venture. The very fact that Martin had, when all others hadn’t, showed that Azzan had made the right choice. And yet, perhaps, if he hadn’t placed Martin in such a position to begin with, this may never have happened, after all. Desperate men did desperate deeds. And Martin looked hungry.

“Well. Now that it’s come to this, we’ll finish what we started, at least.” The leader, Ophen, raised his arm and motioned his men forward, slinking back as they moved.

With his back against the wall, it was simple for Martin’s allies to surround him. He clenched his staff tight and gritted his teeth. The men encircled him, raised their shields as if to defend themselves from his magic.

He pulled on the Fade, using the reserves of his dwindling mana supply, and blasted the men back.

Then he ran.

He hadn’t much time, but he didn’t need more than a few seconds. Just enough to get up to the guards, to warn them, to call them to his aid. He could use his staff as a weapon, pretend the blade on its end was made for lancing if need be–

Ophen stepped out in front of him.

Azzan had to pull up short just beyond the wall of his house. Just within eyesight of the Keep. So close.

Without a word, Ophen unsheathed his sword and charged. Azzan blocked the blow with his staff, his arms straining as the force crashed against him. He grunted and bowed beneath the blow. The man lifted his sword, making Azzan stumble at the sudden lack of pressure, and beat down once more. With a gasp of breath, he moved his staff to his left, blocking the slice of the man’s sword. The force of it pushed him until his feet skidded. His knees buckled, and with a short cry, he lost the battle of strength and dodged desperately to the side. The sword slashed deep into his arm.

Within the dark silence of the night, sounds of alarm spread from far away, the guards noticing, finally, the battle occurring just beyond their doorstep. And above those shocked voices, a deep, guttural sound of rage.

Even as Hawke got his feet beneath him and stood straight, even as the warrior lifted his sword to strike again, a shot of blinding blue launched itself through the sky with a roar. Ophen barely had time to halt his swing and jump aside before Fenris slammed his sword to the ground, the strength behind it forcing a small tremor up Azzan’s feet into his spine.

Something feral speared Fenris’ face as he turned to Ophen, his grip on his sword tight. The elf moved to stand before Azzan, his body falling quickly into its usual ready stance. The scars on his skin shone bright enough to blind.

Azzan used the chance to call on the small spark of gold shifting just beyond his reach, curling its tendrils around him and spreading the cool, glimmering light out. With Fenris’ markings lighting the place like Veilfire, his power seemed little more than a reflection of Fenris’ own. Ophen backed away at the sight.

“Afraid to face a fellow warrior?” Fenris snarled. Ophen stiffened. His fist clenched white around his sword. The man lifted his shield and stood against Fenris.

Azzan turned to look behind them, toward the recovering men. Martin, too, moved forward again, the paralysis wearing off. Azzan bared his teeth.

“Hawke!”

Aveline! “More back here!” he called, and stood nearly back-to-back with Fenris. The soldiers launched themselves at him, desperate to reach him before his allies did. Unwilling to drop his healing magic with Fenris right beside him, he was left with nothing but his staff to defend himself. He lifted its blade high.

“Cowards!” Fenris pushed Azzan out of the way and swung, hitting low and wide, cutting through the first two men to come at Azzan, his swing barely clipping the edge of the Hawke estate. “Come at me!” Fenris ran into the fray, his bare feet slapping the ground before he kicked himself off the wall and swung his body at an angle to the ground, his sword flashing as he arced it down. Most managed to shuffled out of the way in the small space, but one was not so lucky.

Azzan turned back to the leader. From the corner of his eye, he could see Aveline and even Varric running to his side, two guards with them. “He’s the leader!” he said, warning them.

“Stand down or suffer the consequences!” Aveline’s words barely caught Ophen’s attention; the man’s gaze was trapped on Azzan’s belt and the grenades there. Suddenly it became even more vital that he stay out of the thick of this battle.

“I have the rest of the gas!” he said, and for a moment, everything froze. Aveline’s guards stopped just outside the battle, looking at Azzan as if he’d just held out his wand and cast fireballs in the middle of the street before them. His friends, meanwhile, all had varying looks of disbelief. Aveline shook herself, firming her dropped jaw, and moved to stand before Azzan, pushing him a bit further away from the alleyway. Not far enough to not be able to heal Fenris if need be, but far enough away that he no longer stood such a high chance of getting surrounded.

Varric chuckled, even as he stood back from the battle and loaded arrows by the dozen into his crossbow. With minimal aim, he shot them into the sky. “Geez, Hawke! You leave our sight for less than an hour, and not only do you manage to make yourself some more friends, but you get a gift from them, too! Are we just eye candy when we travel with you?”

It shocked a laugh out of him. Even with their enemies circling around them, he felt suddenly relaxed. “That’s right. One flash of that manly chest, and the information we need just falls into our laps.”

“Aw. You’re such a sweet talker.”

The men who had scrambled furthest from Fenris’ reach screamed as Varric’s arrows fell down as if like rain. The dwarf had already turned back to those attempting to surround Fenris, no longer concerned with those falling with aborted screams beneath his arrows. Azzan kept his eyes on the warriors, Aveline shoving Ophen back and Fenris keeping the enemy’s crew at bay.

There had been a fair amount of enemies, but with his friends, the numbers whittled down. Those who tried to run were caught and held down by Aveline’s guards. A couple, Azzan noted with a frown, backed away toward the neighboring mansion and the window Martin had left open. “Fenris, clear a path!” And he ran to his friend’s side, abandoning Aveline’s protective stance before him. “Aveline, Varric, stay here and round up the rest. Don’t let that man get away, no matter what.” He pointed to Ophen, the man’s teeth lined red from Aveline’s pommel strike. Instead of answering him, Aveline slammed her shield into Ophen’s face.

Fenris made an angry noise, but he did as bade; one good sweep of his sword and a flash of blue light, and two more enemies fell to his strength. Azzan ran over the fallen and toward the window, once more using up the reserves of his mana to shove away the group charging too closely to his heels. He pulled once more on the spirit’s strength, silently apologizing for demanding so much of it that night, and healed himself and his friends. The cool wash of magic over his arm, the almost-chilly, almost-water-like feel of the magic stopping his bleeding and sealing the wound, made him shiver slightly. He caught his breath. He was tired. “Come on, Fenris. Quickly.”

Fenris backhanded a man who tried to come at him from his vulnerable side, while his sword rested at his left. The man’s lip bled from the sharp edges on Fenris’ armor. Azzan yanked on the Fade, his body so weary it trembled at the effort, and shoved it into his staff, throwing the pulse of energy at the enemy before he could recover. He took the hit straight to the gut and stumbled back. Fenris cleaved the man in two, the blood spraying across them both, painting the outer wall. Fenris hurried to Azzan’s side. “You fool! What are you doing?”

“Martin’s getting away – the man who made these things, who set them up to be used in Lowtown.” And though Fenris’ lips pursed, though the elf looked at Azzan’s trembling hands knowingly, he did not argue. Instead he shoved Azzan through the window, then slammed it down behind them. Even with the new barrier, they could clearly hear Varric taunting their enemies. An arrow thunked into the brick beside the glass, likely keeping someone from chasing after them. That left only those who’d fled inside.

The place was dark, the air heavy. Azzan tensed, waiting for either him or Fenris to start coughing, or choking, or to feel lightheaded or dizzy – all signs other victims had mentioned as their first symptoms of the gas affecting their bodies. But nothing. After a short beat, he relaxed a bit. He heard no noise, no movement. Yet he could feel, if he spread the energy of his healing aura to its limit, the touch of life in the room. He hadn’t felt it before, when searching for someone to heal when Martin first came out – if only he’d though to do the same for the upper floors, he might not have been caught quite by such surprise. So he searched a little further, stretching the feeling up and down, to its very limits. A couple more sparks of life.

He reached out and gently touched Fenris’ arm. The man tensed, then shifted slightly. Azzan squeezed tightly just before he slid his magic through his staff, lighting the bladed tip like a star. Fenris flinched under his fingers, and Azzan quickly let go.

The light illuminated the space, the lounge chairs and the chaises, the small, spindly-legged tables so decorative nothing but a couple of books and some small statuettes sat upon them; shadows burst out from where they stood, retreating from the source of light in the darkness. Within the shadows, something moved, and then something else; two men, trying to recover from the sudden light. Fenris, with the warning Azzan had given him, recovered more quickly and raced forward. The room was anything but small, but the furniture made movement a bit more difficult. Still, Fenris leaped onto a chair and launched himself forward, a snarl ripping through his teeth as he slashed down. The man fell with a wet cry, having done little more than raise his dagger blindly before falling.

The second seemed to have recovered from the light a bit, and he ran to the stairs at the back of the room. He held a bow, but no arrows and no quiver. Azzan frowned at the sight and sent another short burst of magic through his staff. The man groaned as it hit, but did not fall. Of course not; Azzan didn’t usually channel his magic into killing blows, especially when he was also channeling a spirit; he didn’t want to risk corruption. And he was tired, in a way that made his body ache. Even if he wanted to put such force behind his attacks, he likely couldn’t.

Fenris, however, looked as if energy simmered inside him, demanding an outlet. He raced over to the injured archer and rammed his pommel into the man’s head. A kick to his stomach, a hard smack with the side of his blade, and the man went down, unconscious. Azzan frowned; Fenris didn’t seem in the mood to play nice. But then, as the elf turned to him, he realized Fenris had kept the man alive in case they needed answers. Locations. Azzan’s heart tripped in his chest, his mind going back to the amorphous images he’d held since learning a bit of Fenris’ past. Most likely, Fenris had been made to take people in alive before. For the magister’s – for Danarius’ – own ends. Which wouldn’t have been good.

He raced forward, wanting suddenly to be by Fenris’ side. Something clogged his throat. He wanted to apologize, to tell Fenris he needn’t fight by his side. But this was the man’s choice, and Azzan would not take it from him.

“There’s one down below,” he said instead, lowering his voice as he got to Fenris’ side. “Two above. If you can take the two above, I’ll keep the one below from running.”

Fenris nodded, his lips pressed so tightly together they turned as white as his knuckles. “I’ll be down soon.” The man’s breath ghosted over Azzan’s skin, a wisp of touch before Fenris ran up the stairs. His entire body shivered at the contact. He watched Fenris’ advance for a moment, worried at the shadows that quickly consumed the man. The second floor’s windows were all open; Fenris would be able to see just fine from the moonlight shining within. Enough to find a moving target, at least. But if they hid in those shadows?

He heard the clang of metal and sighed in relief. Fenris could see just fine.

He turned away, his gaze scanning the room before giving it up and searching for another entrance down. He passed the room and entered the main hall. Two doors led to the servants’ quarters, another to the kitchens. He stepped inside, the smell of rot hitting him the instant he swept the door wide and stepped in. He wrinkled his nose, his gaze quickly picking out the pools of blood and bile, the scent of excrement almost as strong as the scent of decay. The body was bloated, the fluids largely dry. He frowned. This had happened long before the attack on Lowtown. What was the point of it all? Why attack this household – and so quietly and thoroughly that Azzan didn’t hear it happen – and then make such a racket in Lowtown?

As he’d suspected, two doors led away from the kitchen. One led to a small storage room just off the main room, filled with flour and potatoes and salt, other spices sitting in small rows off the front – everything that could stand to sit for a time without use. An ice box sat at the end, the food just as rotted by now as the body, the ice turned to water. He left that room and turned to the other. His light easily penetrated the darkness as it loomed downward, into a cellar. He searched the shadows, then stepped down.

He almost expected to be attacked then and there – with his light guiding his way, he was much easier a target than anything he searched for. But he was not. It left him even more on-guard; he couldn’t pinpoint the source of life without using up more magic, and he had to save up as much of his reserves as he could to ensure he could correctly create the glyph that would hold his enemy in place.

He reached the bottom and searched once more; still, he saw no movement, felt no pervasive presence. With slow steps, he traced his way into the storeroom. There was a large chance something sat beyond the wall of wine racks and the shelves and shelves of canned fruits and jams, the vegetables slowly turning to mold. A doorway might lead to a private room below, though most were kept in the attics. If anything unsavory were taking place, however, they would likely wish to keep away from windows. With that thought, he headed to the left, away from the wine.

He heard a door creak.

It came from up ahead. He stilled, though of course it would do no good; his light would guide any enemy straight to him. His reserves were so low he could feel the tips of his fingers turning numb, his body resisting the continued use of magic after such a hard run earlier in the day. He dare not use any more, even to brighten the room further.

Another short sound, coming from behind the nearest row of shelves. He quickly stepped away from the shelving, aware that the glass jars could be used as weapons in their own right, and lifted his staff slightly. There was little point in asking the enemy to show himself; they clearly had no intention of doing so. He could hear nothing else. Moments passed, slips of time that felt like years, yet nothing creaked or moaned.

He planted his staff on the ground and poured the glyph around his own feet.

An instant later, someone cursed behind him.

He fought down his grin as he turned around. Unsurprisingly, it was Martin, his hand outstretched for Azzan’s belt. It was his fingers that had passed through the glyph, foolishly thinking it pertained only to the ground and not to the air above, as well. He stepped away from the man’s reach. “You’ve killed even more than I knew,” he said, nodding toward the stairs and the innocent woman whose body carpeted the stone floor.

“That wasn’t me,” Martin said, his lips flickering into a grin. He laughed. “You think that was me? Those are _knife wounds_ those people carry. I don’t deal in blades.”

“Your friends do,” Azzan said, but he frowned. If not Martin, than who? “And you are the one crawling through here, obviously used to the building.”

“I needed somewhere to live after you left me high and dry.” Martin seemed to struggle to move; he wouldn’t be able to for a minute or two. Azzan had poured the very last of himself into the glyph. His fingers were numb on his staff. His head swam. He struggled to keep his breathing steady. “What better place than the house right next to the man who ruined me?”

He would have to deal with that blow later. He stepped back, nearly tripping over his own feet. He couldn’t feel his toes. The world fuzzed around him. He barely understood his own words when he next spoke. “Why attack all of Lowtown?”

“A test. For something much larger.”

He’d thought the spirit he relied on would pull away, preserving itself as he ran his body to its edges, but instead he felt it pressing closer and closer from beyond the Veil. _Don’t_ , the thought, trying to tell it his wishes. He would rather fall to his own foolishness than become what Fenris feared. No matter the spirit’s intentions, no matter what he became. He didn’t want it.

“What something?” he asked.

Martin moved. Azzan backed away, falling against the shelves. Glass knocked into its neighbors. Something fell and shattered. Martin laughed at the sight, but Azzan couldn’t focus enough to see him.

“You’ll never know.” The man’s voice was close. So close.

“Hawke!”

He pushed. With a scream of agony, he blasted Martin away. The world flashed white, then fell into deep darkness.

* * *

“–should be waking up shortly. Ah, there we go.”

He recognized Anders’ voice. He thought he could recognize other sounds: the shuffle of feet, the steady exhales of breath. The sense of people nearby. A fire crackled nearby, to his right. He tried to move, only to feel pain shooting up and down his spine, through his legs and arms, up his neck and into his head. He groaned.

“Don’t overdo it. Well. Any more than you already have, at least.”

“It’s not funny,” Merrill said, and why exactly was she in the room? When did she show up? “He could have killed himself.”

“Oh, my boy. How is he? Why won’t he wake up?”

“He’s awake,” Anders said, answering his mother’s question. “He’s probably just in a lot of pain. He overdid himself at my clinic, then apparently went home and overdid it some more. Merrill’s right, for once; he really put himself in jeopardy.”

Azzan hitched in a breath, the simple movement making his body scream, and forced his eyes open. He immediately recognized his room. The curtains were drawn, hiding what looked to be bright sunlight. The fire gave off the soft light in the room, flickering behind the forms of his friends. Somehow, despite its dim glow, it still seemed blindingly bright.

He trained his gaze on his mother and tried to smile. “Hi, mother.”

“Oh, Azzan. You must stop worrying me like this.” Leandra sat beside him, one of the chairs from the corner of the room pulled up to the side of his bed. Her frown showed off the worried lines on her forehead and around her lips, but her fingers were as gentle as ever. She pressed them into his hand,  carded them through his hair. “How are you feeling?”

He winced when he made to move, only for Anders to lean in over his mother. “Don’t move yet. Your body’s still recovering. You nearly drained yourself to death. Try not to do that again, yeah?”

He blinked. That, at least, didn’t hurt.

“You worried us,” Aveline said. He looked past Anders to see a whole contingent of people in his room. He grinned; for once, Fenris, Anders, and Merrill all stood in the same room without sniping at each other. Merrill stood by Anders, leaning past his bulk to catch his eye. Aveline stood, arms crossed, by the entrance, as if to make certain no one came through who wasn’t allowed. Fenris leaned against the wall, his gaze steady on Azzan, though he did not move to come closer. By his desk stood Varric and Isabela, both putting down their cards for a short second to watch Azzan as he awakened.

Leandra looked around, as well. “Your elf friend brought you here and got this man,” she said, indicating Anders. He was pretty certain his mother knew all of their names and wondered why she didn’t use them. “He said you were near death. He said he was too tired to help you. Ser Varric was kind enough to bring her,” she said, pointing to Merrill, “to help.”

“The name’s Merrill, Miss… Hawke’s mother,” Merrill said, pointing to herself.

“Merrill, then.” Leandra gave the young woman a nod before turning back to Azzan. “They both worked to bring you back. Almost too late, they said. I thought you were a healer? Couldn’t you, you know? Save yourself?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Anders said, his voice going low and serious. Aveline and Varric started putting their cards away. They stood and made their way to the other side of his bed. “He exhausted himself. We mages don’t have some endless supply of mana to pull from; our pools are limited by our ability to reach the Fade. Though Hawke’s ability to draw from the Fade is greater than any I’ve seen, there’s still a limit. He saved dozens of people yesterday. He shouldn’t have been able to so much as light a candle without passing out, let alone lighting glyphs and force-blasting enemies away. He got lucky. Well, strong and lucky.”

He looked at Aveline, barely daring to turn his head to do so. “Martin? Ophen?”

“Martin’s dead,” she said, careful not to say how in front of his mother. Hawke’s gaze slid to Fenris, who now seemed more interested in the doorway. “Ophen’s in custody, along with two of his men. He admitted to the attack on Lowtown, but not the deaths of the LaDeirn family.”

“Martin said it wasn’t them,” Azzan told her.

“Not that you can trust the word of a murderer,” Leandra said, her back stiff.

Aveline, however, did not brush off Hawke’s words. “Did he speak on what happened in Lowtown?”

“A test, he said.” Azzan tried to sit up. His mother touched his shoulder as if to push him back down, but he persisted. Varric and Isabela wordlessly helped him up. Leandra looked at them, then lowered her arm. He squeezed her other hand, still wrapped in his.

“A test? For what?” Aveline scowled. “You mean this could happen again? Only _worse?”_

His muscles screamed as he moved, Isabela’s hand against his back. She grabbed up his pillows and fluffed them behind him before leaning his back, Varric’s hands still on his side and arm, pulling so that he didn’t have to strain himself. Isabela chuckled. “Well, at least I made it to your bedroom.”

He chuckled despite himself, though his mother glared hotly at the woman for her words. “Thank you,” he said only. Both she and Varric let go of him, Varric keeping a critical eye on his movements. Ready, Azzan was sure, to order him back down if he flinched too harshly.

“You shaved years off my life, Hawke,” the dwarf said. His only criticism, tinged so deeply with worry the recrimination was nearly lost. Azzan smiled at his friend.

“Sorry.” He looked to everyone. “I’m sorry I worried you all.”

“It was scary,” Merrill said, the first, as always, to share her emotions. “you weren’t moving; your mana was so depleted it felt like you were dead.” Leandra flinched. He squeezed her hand again, this time getting a hard squeeze in return. “I barely had enough mana to really help. You know my… abilities don’t lie in healing.” She looked away for a second. Yes, he knew. He was a constant bone of contention between them, no matter how gently he tried to speak with her about it.

“I’m all right.” He turned to Fenris, who still hadn’t looked away from the doorway. The firelight made the shadows of his hair and cheekbones almost harsh. He was beautiful. “I received help. I think it fed as much as it could to me, to help protect me. But it could only do so much without joining with me. Something I was unwilling to let happen.”

That made Fenris look. Azzan couldn’t read the expression on his face, so he could find no censure. Whatever it was, it felt like something was being drawn between them, something that made the rest of the room heavy around them, that made the space around them light and soft and the gap between them wide. It left his breath short in his chest for a completely different reason.

“All right,” Leandra said, snapping him from his trance, “I think that’s enough for now. Any questions or concerns you may have can wait for him to get a little more rest.” She did not stand, did not usher them away. Yet his friends all did as bade, making their good-byes and bowing out of the room. Fenris was the last of the non-mages to go, his gaze still unreadable. Still scorching.

They still hadn’t talked about Hawke being a spirit healer. They would have to; it wasn’t something that could be left alone. But, for the moment, Fenris did not seem willing to pry. Instead he tilted his head, his gaze giving away nothing, and left. Merrill looked Hawke up and down, then followed after Fenris. The warrior elf gave her a wide berth as she came abreast of him. They slowly moved out of sight, likely letting themselves out of the house. It was almost a rude gesture, not to see them off, but he was in no position to move and his mother didn’t seem willing yet to leave his side.

Anders held his hand over Hawke, his magic pouring out enough for even Leandra to see. The color was a bit weak, the motions heavy, but the mage’s hand stayed steady. “You really should rest,” Anders said, all traces of humor gone. “It wasn’t as close as Merrill said, but you pushed yourself beyond the edges of exhaustion. You shouldn’t use your magic for a few days, at the very least. I’ll make certain Aveline knows; she’ll have someone watch over you, if she can’t.”

It didn’t sound like a fun few days, but it was better than being surprised by an enemy again. He nodded. That alone was enough to make him wince. “Thank you, Anders. For everything.”

“Geez, don’t say things like that. You sound like you’re waiting for your last hurrah.” But Anders smiled. “And I just wanted to let you know. Those patients of yours? They’re already up and about, even the kids. Everyone’s doing much better. Another day or so and even those with cramps will be dancing around, causing mischief again.”

He smiled. It was good news. The first good news in a while. “Thanks.”

Anders nodded, then looked to Leandra and nodded to her, as well. He left without another word.

Leandra leaned in the moment they were all gone and wrapped her other hand over his, until they cradled his palm between hers. “Are you all right? Is there anything you need?”

“I’m fine, mother.” He could still feel the Fade, the spirit he’d contracted with watching silently on the other side. He tried to send his gratitude over the weak link, tried to express what it meant to him that the spirit he’d chosen had not forced itself upon him when he’d been most vulnerable. It had honored his request. They’d chosen each other wisely.

Though it strained at every inch of his body, he pushed himself up a bit higher on the pillows. His mother fussed with the things for a few seconds, finally letting go of his hand to do so. But the loss of contact between them seemed to unnerve her, because before too long, her hands were back, on his shoulder, on his forehead, as if he were still a child suffering from a seasonal malady. Carefully, he reached up and gripped her hand in his. “I’m fine. Truly. I overexerted myself, that’s all.”

Her lips trembled. “When they carried you in here – oh, I didn’t know what to think.”

“I have friends with me, mom,” he said. “It was through them that Carter lived. Remember?” They’d only received the letter about a month ago. It had been the gladdest day they’d had in a while. He may be gone, he may be traveling on his own journey, away from them. But he was alive. That meant so much more than anything else. “Anders’ help ensured we found the Grey Wardens. Varric’s help got us through the Deep Roads to reach them. And this time, I had Fenris and Aveline and Merrill with me, as well.” His muscles screamed at him, but he pulled her close and hugged him. “I’m not alone. I’m safer than I’d been in Lothering.”

He felt her tuck her head under his, felt her test his strength for herself. He put one aching hand on the back of her head and let his own words sink in. Yes, in Lothering he’d lived without the battles or the drama or the fear. Yes, he’d lived a simple, invisible life on a farm off the edge of a small village. But though he faced more battles, more danger – more templars – than he’d ever faced before in his life, he’d never had so many people who stood unwaveringly by his side. Even Fenris, who distrusted him more than perhaps anyone, had come to him the instant he’d needed help.

Before, it had been all about how he could protect his sister. His family. Now he was protected. _He wasn’t alone_. With his friends, he wouldn’t ever be alone again.

He held his mother tight, his room momentarily empty, his heart overwhelmingly full.

* * *

 

[Art](http://geeky-jez.tumblr.com/post/151782932678/a-commission-i-just-finished-for-kayura-sanada) by [geeky-jez](http://geeky-jez.tumblr.com/):


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